


on fire for you

by silvertrumpets (baelished)



Category: Actor RPF, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Blowjobs, Face-Fucking, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 19:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30009849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baelished/pseuds/silvertrumpets
Summary: An ongoing anthology of oneshot fics exploring Viggo x random men. Tags will be updated as chapters are added.
Relationships: Viggo Mortensen/Kurt Russell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	on fire for you

_November 19, 2018._

_Backstage after the Late Late Show with James Corden._

“Who’da thought we’d end up here again?” Kurt’s voice is honeysuckle-sweet against Viggo’s neck, the weight of him keeping Viggo held tight against the dressing room door. Viggo can’t take this, being _so close_ to Kurt’s dried-beer breath and the thunderstorm-dark waves of his hair, and he claws at Kurt’s shirt, trapping his fingers beneath the buttons, brushing blunt nails into the thick chest hair. 

Kurt drawls out a teasingly slick, “Oh no, sweetheart,” and takes Viggo’s frantic face in his hands, stilling all of Viggo’s greedy motions. His hands drop from Kurt’s shirt and curl into fists at his sides, defeated for the moment. “Just lemme look at ya.” In Kurt’s grasp, Viggo’s cheeks flame fire-pink, his eyes blinking rapidly and catching quick glimpses of Kurt between the flits of darkness. Want swirls black-smoke plumes deep in his stomach, clouds his vision so he sees nothing but Kurt’s face in front of him. 

A thumb twirls against Viggo’s temple, tracing some silent, secret pattern. “You were always so eager,” Kurt says, and kisses Viggo, presses firm lips to his and Viggo opens his mouth on the verge of instinct, exposing the wet warmth of his tongue that Kurt instantly claims for his own, sucking on the pink flesh hungrily, making the back of Viggo’s head press plush against the door, scalp tingling from the force. 

“Still love sucking cock, do ya?” asks Kurt, though the question is implied rather than stated outright. The bright twinkle in his eyes and lines dusting his cheeks tell Viggo that Kurt _knows_ the answer, and is merely toying with Viggo, seeing what he can get him to say. 

Swaying dangerously on his feet, Viggo nods. “Yes.”

A miraculous _huffah_ trips from Kurt’s mouth. “You forget how to talk after all these years, Mortensen?” His thumb catches on Viggo’s bottom lip, dragging it down to expose tiny rows of teeth, fingernail digging into rosebud-wet gum. Putting on a mock Viggo voice with surprising accuracy around the vowels, he muses, “‘Oh, Mr. Russell, I’m such a big fan, I loved you in _Escape From New York,_ it was my favorite movie of the year, I wanted to meet you so bad, please fuck my face while I cry!’” He lets his thumb fall from Viggo’s mouth with a sharp pop. “Sound familiar?”

“I didn’t say that,” counters Viggo, trying to look away and managing only to stare at Kurt’s shoulder. In a quick flash, Kurt snaps his fingers, bringing Viggo’s flushed gaze back to his icebox eyes. 

“Well, not _all_ of it. The rest I picked up on somewhere between getting you on your bony knees and coming all over that pretty young face of yours.”

Viggo’s breath shudders on its way out, dizziness dazing his senses, little flashes of light bright-bursting at the corners of his sight. As he tries to swallow, he is very aware of how cactus-dry his throat is, prickled and parched. 

“Not young anymore,” counters Kurt, a wry smirk splitting his broad features. “Still pretty, though.” A hand grasps Viggo’s chin roughly, a finger dipping into the divot in the center, toying with him, molding his skin to his needs. “So pretty.” His other hand cradles Viggo’s neck, and Viggo finds himself strangely thankful for the help in holding his head upright. 

Yet his mouth might be filled with glue for all the effort it takes Viggo to try and speak. Words catch in his tangled throat, tingle against his tongue, but he doesn’t say anything, just stares at Kurt, desire boiling in his blood. 

Kurt’s hands trail from sharp face to shaky shoulders, his lips pressed in a thin pink line, surveying Viggo’s smaller frame. _Trapped_ is the word that comes to Viggo’s mind; yet he would not choose to be anywhere else but underneath Kurt’s burly hands and eagle-eye leer. Vaguely, in some corner of his mind that isn’t all-consumed by need, he registers that Kurt’s got one palm on his chest and the other sliding down, slipping over Viggo’s shirt. Viggo has just enough time to choke out a pitiful attempt at a whine before Kurt’s hand finds his bulge and squeezes a sleek grip through his pants. 

“Look at you,” Kurt’s voice rings in his ear, deep and echoing, rattling around in Viggo’s skull. “Still a slut. Still a perfect, pretty little slut.” Viggo staggers against the door as Kurt grasps his cock harder, jostling it against the fabric, testing it against his hand. “Already halfway to hard, huh? Whore.” Recklessly rolling his hips, Viggo seeks out more, bucking against Kurt’s fingers, begging for it, whining a wet growl as the touches urge him hard, painfully aroused and altogether putty under Kurt, who has advanced to groping Viggo’s cock like it’s a new toy he needs to test with a hands-on approach. It might hurt, Viggo thinks, if he didn’t love it so damn much. 

“Kurt, I—” begins Viggo, but his mouth is slapped shut with a strong palm, pressing firm-fast against the pink lips and impervious tongue, forcing any would-be words down into the pit of Viggo’s stomach. 

“Too late for that,” comes from Kurt’s upturned crescent of a mouth, and he draws his hand away so quickly that Viggo’s weight slouches forward in a quest for more, his eyes blown wide and wanting, shoulders slumping in defeat. Kurt chuckles, a deep-pulled jovial laugh from his chest, and the mischief sparkling in his eyes entices Viggo, makes his chest swirl with want so intense his lungs compress, his hips thrusting and his cock pulsing for it. “I have better things for that mouth to do.” 

Wrestling Viggo onto the ground, Kurt shoves his shoulders downward, Viggo’s knees buckling on instinct once the boldly bossy hands are on him, submitting without much of a fight. Not that he would fight if he could. Three long fingers tilt his chin up, and Kurt’s bigger than Viggo remembers, though neither of them have added any height in the past three decades. Holding Kurt’s gaze, Viggo’s cheeks burn under the heat of that bruising-bold stare, Kurt’s bottom lip worried between his teeth as he contemplates his next move. 

The snap of a button unclasped pricks Viggo’s ears, and he swallows the splash of drool gathering beneath his tongue. Kurt’s pants puddle on the ground at his feet, his underwear following suit, and then Viggo’s mouth is met with a hard, leaking cock dancing against his lips. Opening his mouth without being ordered, he receives a definitive grunt of approval from Kurt. “Knew you were still a cockslut.”

If he could reply, Viggo would tell him he’s dreamed about his cock, thought about how snug and warm it fits in his mouth, how he’s longed for this day when they could relive the past. Only Viggo’s better at blowjobs now, his mouth and his jaw trained for it, tongue more talented and throat more capable. 

Kurt’s cock is as he remembered: thick like a tree-trunk, stretching Viggo’s lips wide as he seeks out the pulsing veins with a pliant tongue. A gruff groan tumbles from Kurt’s mouth at that, seafoam gaze stuttering shut while he throws his head back. Encouraged, Viggo chases down more cock, opening his mouth wider, spit sticking to his lips. 

A hand curls tight in Viggo’s hair, tugging at the silver-tinted strands. “Miss when this was long,” says Kurt conversationally. Closing his eyes, Viggo feels the ghost of Kurt’s hand grabbing his near shoulder-length locks, yanking his head around with just a sharp pull. Maybe that’s why he wore his hair long all those years. He certainly had no shortage of men to follow in Kurt’s footsteps, fingers tangled tight in his hair while they fucked his mouth, his ass, jerked off over his begging body. “Always remember the kid I throat-fucked in the bathroom at the wrap party and his shaggy blond hair wrapped around my fist.” He pulls Viggo’s head forward by his hair, thrusts deep and full so Viggo has to juggle his priorities, relaxing his muscles and trying not to choke. 

Aroused to no end, Viggo takes the palm of his hand to his pants and presses against his cock, rocking his hips for friction. Noticing this development, Kurt says, “You can take ‘em off if that’s easier.” He doesn’t make it easy, though; as Viggo’s hands go to his zipper, Kurt thrusts deep, and Viggo chokes in surprise, sputters, and tries to recover. When he tilts his eyes to Kurt’s face, he finds the man smirking, eyes sparkling ocean-blue against his pale features. 

Finally getting his pants undone, Viggo pushes them down just enough and fishes out his cock, sighing around Kurt’s dick at the relief of fingers on warm skin and muscle. A dry laugh, and Kurt muses, “Viggo’s famous cock.” He slips out from between Viggo’s lips and smears a blend of pre-cum and spit over the swollen mouth. Wetness sticks to Viggo’s face, and he leans his face into the intrusion, enjoying being marked, being used. “Figured you’re so used to getting it out in movies, you might as well do so whenever you please.” Kurt pauses, stroking his thumb over his own dick, watching Viggo fist himself, hips rising in little thrusts. “It’s a very nice cock, though.”

“Thank you,” says Viggo, raggedy-breathed and rusty, throat cracking like flaked dirt. The air is strange against his tongue as he speaks, like being dunked in saltwater. Grasping his cock tighter, he jerks its slippery length, a moan dragging from his throat at the pricks of pleasure building deep in his stomach, edging into euphoria on the head of his cock. 

Trailing a finger over Viggo’s spit-slickened lips, pressing gently against the white bones of his teeth, Kurt shakes his head. “Your mouth is for sucking my dick right now, got it?” Upon Viggo’s wide-eyed nod, Kurt shoves his cock back into Viggo’s waiting mouth and instantly finds a hearty rhythm, and Viggo is strangely relieved. 

He loves sucking cock—whether he’s given free rein or being shoved around, he can’t deny himself the pressure and pleasure of a cock in his mouth, being worked around teeth and tongue. Kurt’s unusual in that he takes all the pleasure, controlling Viggo with words, hands, and hips; yet his eyes remain kind and laughing. Some men turn their vision dark with lust. It says that this edges on a game for Kurt—playing around with Viggo to see what he can get him to do, but no ill intent takes over alongside dominance. 

Plus there’s the hawk-stare way Kurt’s ogling Viggo’s cock as he strokes it in time with Kurt’s cants into his mouth. Like Viggo is something to be claimed and conquered, but praised in the meantime. That thought makes a shiver settle down his spine, sparking shockwaves deep under his skin, and he opens his mouth as far as he can, ever eager to please. A steady thrum of ecstasy rears its head; he feels it in his balls, in the tip of his cock, and _Jesus_ , he’s gonna come all over himself before he knows it. 

“That’s it,” is the encouragement from Kurt, shoving deep into the vice of Viggo’s throat, knocking the air from his lungs, filling him up like it’s all he’s good for. And maybe, Viggo thinks, it is. “God, yeah.” If Viggo wasn’t sure he could take it, he would question his ability to. Kurt’s a bit reckless, a bit gaudy, though Viggo guesses he’d be gentler with him if he needed to stop. But he doesn’t, and instead just fucks him harder. “Keep jerking your cock like that.”

A familiar hint of tears tugs at the corners of Viggo’s eyes, an instinctual reaction to the cock ramming into the back of his throat. His lashes sting as he blinks, hand quickening around his cock, leaking diamond-cut clear onto his fingers, and the tears that fall on his cheeks feel a lot like draught-welcomed rain. Blurry-eyed, he looks up at Kurt, who has slowed his thrusts just the smallest amount and is giving him a once-over to, Viggo assumes, make sure he’s not about to ask for an out. As much as he can manage, Viggo gives him a tiny nod, swallowing down more cock as he does. _Use me._

With a startlingly tender hand, Kurt wipes Viggo’s tears from his cheeks, using the backs of his knuckles to stroke over red-wet bone. Viggo whimpers at being seen to like this, touched so kindly while being face-fucked so deep. Moving both of his hands to cradle Viggo’s skull, Kurt holds him steady as he fucks his throat, and Viggo is grateful for it. 

Viggo’s mouth rubs raw from the intrusion, the thick cock grazing over his tongue, and his throat is desert-dry without a fair supply of air. The pace Kurt’s set is such that Viggo can’t move his mouth even to lax it; instead, he offers himself up as an open, wet mouth, a welcome hole for Kurt to own. He loves it like this: being taken, being used, being held down and on display. 

“Jesus,” floats urgently from Kurt’s mouth, and he wraps a hand around the base of his dick and pulls out so the tip of his cock rests inside Viggo’s mouth. “Jesus.” He taps it against Viggo’s tongue, once, twice, and a gravelly-sweet groan explodes from his lips as cum spurts in laces and pools in a puddle in Viggo’s mouth. Viggo imagines it must look very pearl-white against his pink tongue. Savoring the faintly salted taste, he swallows it all, noting the warmth of it down his throat, and offers his mouth for any more that Kurt can coax out. 

A laugh, cheerful and a bit triumphant, pairs with the gloating smile painted on Kurt’s face. “Remembered you were a cumslut.” A few stray drops land on Viggo’s twitching tongue, and he takes them in stride. Kurt may be the one in control, but it’s not lost on Viggo that _he_ made Kurt come with his willing mouth. Again. 

He hadn’t realized he’d stopped stroking his own cock to enjoy Kurt’s release until he hears, “Hurry up. I don’t have all day.” When he glances up at Kurt, he sees him staring daggers at his hand fisted on his cock, which Viggo registers as almost painfully hard, leaking and throbbing between his fingers. Taking up a rapid rhythm, he strokes himself like he knows nothing else, his dick hot and hard and smooth, blood tingling throughout his body, trailing down to the tips of his toes, which curl in delight beneath him. Those eyes on his body burn blue fire on his skin, twin flames he imagines smoldering on the spot where his hand connects to his cock. 

Squirming, Viggo thrusts up into his hand, a mewl melting in his throat, coming out as a soft whimper. Desperate to come, desperate to please. Sharply, Kurt says, “Come on,” and clenches his fingers tight in Viggo’s hair, pressure building at the helm of his scalp, mingling wondrously with the desperate need commanding his brain waves. “Let go.”

A strangled “fuck” dances off Viggo’s lips and becomes a symphony as he spills hard and fountain-heavy over his knuckles, cum dripping down his fingers and catching on the edge of his hand, head throbbing with the intensity of it, so unsteady that if he were standing, he’d surely fall over. Instead, he wobbles on his knees, stroking himself through sensitivity with the tips of his fingernails, breath wheezing in long, wet sighs through his teeth; the first real air he’s gotten since they began. The shapes behind his eyes are neon meshes of color, blurry stars and spots to accompany the blissful hues of orgasm, and he blinks to clear his vision, to turn his sight back to the man standing above him. 

“Good,” says Kurt, thumb rubbing a lazy, random pattern over Viggo’s wrinkled forehead, his other fingers carding curiously through his hair, tangling in the thin strands. “That’s what I’ve always remembered. How fucking good you are for me.” 

And for how he feels, Viggo might be twenty-something again, a bright-eyed Hollywood wannabe, half-hippie and wholly horny, desperate to sink his claws into any bit of the business. If that means fucking a movie star in the bathroom or a dressing room, he’s game. As long as he’s praised and petted and feels like the star of the show when he takes a cumshot on his tongue. 

But he’s not twenty-something—a fact that bears reminding as his knees crack a worrying sound as he stands up, wiping his hand on a stray handkerchief Kurt has supplied from who-knows-where in his jacket. The post-sex haze settles around him, fuzzes up his mind enough to make his temples pound with the promise of a headache, and his jaw aches where it hinges at his skull. 

Shoving his phone in Viggo’s face, Kurt says, “Don’t think you’re getting away easy again. Give me your number.” Taking the phone in his shaky hands, gawking at the unfamiliar iPhone buttons, Viggo punches in his digits, noting the unsubtle eggplant emoticon Kurt has typed next to his contact name. _Funny._

“I’ll text you,” Kurt’s smirk is evident in the clipped words around his teeth as Viggo hands him his phone back. Excited to rediscover a long-lost plaything. 

“I don’t have an iPhone.” It’s true; not meant to be an excuse, and Kurt must know that, because he starts laughing, slapping Viggo on the shoulder. 

“Then I’ll call you.” The tone is earnest, and Viggo finds he believes that it’s not a blank promise or empty plan: Kurt _will._ The prospect makes a smile slide across his face. 

“Don’t wait thirty years,” is Viggo’s reply, which he intends to be a sly quip and suddenly finds Kurt’s face very close to his, breath hot and heavy on his heating skin. 

Kurt says, “I don’t plan to,” and presses his lips to Viggo’s. It’s a quick, chapped-lipped kiss, but Viggo’s heart thrums in heavy beats against his chest, head light and dizzy all at once. “And you’d best not either, cumslut.” His smile is sharp-toothed and sly, eyes never leaving Viggo as he bends down to retrieve the pile of clothes on the floor, handing Viggo’s to him and brushing their knuckles together as he does. All this is back-ended by a wink, so calculated that Viggo might as well be watching Kurt on the silver screen. “Put your pants back on.”

And so he does. 


End file.
